


Window

by LylaRivers



Series: The One Who Blesses [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley has chronic pain, M/M, Raphael!Crowley, crowley: ngk, me: here crowley hold these feels about chronic pain for me, yall i am here to PROJECT on this poor demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23211214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: He could school his face into stoicism when the pain was too much. He could keep his face perfectly neutral when the angel did something so ridiculous and endearing that Crowley’s lovestruck heart jumped in his chest.But he could never quite control his eyes. They would betray his every emotion at a glance.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The One Who Blesses [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612474
Comments: 7
Kudos: 205





	Window

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who’s back on their Chronic Pain!Crowley bs?!? It’s me! 
> 
> So basically I had an Incident at work with a client reacting badly to my own visible disability. Therefore, Crowley gets All My Feels, because it’s not like I can address it with the kid. Enjoy some absolutely self indulgent h/c ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ

Sunglasses were one of Crowley’s favorite human inventions- right up there with alcohol and intricate rituals where you  _ had _ to touch your best friend. Humans could be ever so superstitious, and tinted glasses had cut his involuntary discorperations to nearly zero since he started wearing them. 

There were other advantages, too. ‘Eyes are the window to the soul’, it was said. Crowley wasn’t sure that he really had a  _ soul _ , perse, as an immortal Fallen angel. But that didn’t stop him from having expressive eyes, to the point where the damned things could give any passing feeling away. He could school his face into stoicism when the pain was too much. He could keep his face perfectly neutral when the angel did something so ridiculous and endearing that Crowley’s lovestruck heart jumped in his chest. 

But he could never quite control his eyes. They would betray his every emotion at a glance. 

Sunglasses are one of Crowley’s favorite human inventions. 

He  _ knows _ that Aziraphale doesn’t like it when he wears the glasses. Unfortunately for him, Crowley doesn’t want the angel to see his eyes. He doesn’t want  _ anyone _ to see his eyes. It’s yet another reminder of his demonic status- another  _ thing _ he can’t hide. He’s escaped the indignity of having his animal aspect on his head, but he has hardly escaped all reminders that he is Fallen, unforgivable in Her eyes. The eyes, the hiss that comes out when he’s thoroughly soused, the odd sway in his walk that comes from the pain of having legs… it all serves to signify him as something other than human. 

It’s why he leans into the flash bastard designation: if people are going to stare at him anyways, he might as well give them a show worth staring at. He wears tight, fashionable clothes, and leans into the sway of his too-loose hips, making the walk intentional, rather than necessitated by spine and hips that were never supposed to bear weight upright. 

Let them think he’s some sort of rockstar, some sort of secret agent. It fits the image he wants to project: suave, invincible, the architect of Original Sin. 

His eyes betray him every time. It’s far easier to keep them covered whenever possible: then nothing can ruin his image. 

***

Hastur snatches the glasses off his face in the Bentley on the way to the airfield, and Crowley does his level best not to cringe away. It's damned hard, but he refuses to give Hastur the satisfaction of seeing him flinch over  _ anything _ . He is the Serpent in the Garden of Eden, and he is  _ better than that _ . 

It still hurts. He arrives at the airfield with no defenses, car a burning husk, nerves frayed,  _ aching _ with something he dare not name. The AntiChrist splits Aziraphale-Tracey into their two rightful halves, and Crowley lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

He’s laid bare by Satan rising from the ground, fears and anxieties on display for anyone to see. No glasses to hide behind, not even a pretense of cool. Defenses burned, just like his car. 

It’s only later, on the bus, when it all hits-  _ really _ hits. He hunches over in the seat next to Aziraphale, hiding his face and his eyes. 

It’s been literal centuries since he’s been without his glasses for this long. His face feels bare, unprotected. There’s no barrier between himself and the world. He’s too exhausted from stopping time to even think about miracling himself another pair. 

He’s really  _ on display _ , in a way that simply hasn’t been a problem in centuries. 

He slumps further into the seat. “Do you need to sleep, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, clearly mistaking his sudden awareness of vulnerability for exhaustion. “I can wake you when we get there.”

“‘M fine, angel,” Crowley slurs. 

The angel gives him a small smile, and rests his hand gently on top of Crowley’s. Crowley feels his eyes widen involuntarily at the manicure-soft skin now covering his own. “My dear,” he says. Crowley is overwhelmed by the force of  _ Something _ behind those two words. “You look exhausted. I will remind you that guarding things is my speciality.”

The angel may not know it, but he’s offering Crowley an out. Crowley nods shortly, and Aziraphale pulls him down so that he’s resting on the angel’s shoulder. “There we are. Get some rest, my dear.”

Crowley is  _ sure _ that he won’t be able to sleep, categorizing the way the angel’s shoulder rises and falls with the illusion of breath. The day’s toll must be more than he realizes, because he slowly… drifts… off…

***

The world spins on. Crowley breathes a sigh of internal relief, and carries on much as he had before, bothering the angel, tempting him to lunch, gluing coins to the sidewalk, and sneaking into hospitals to relieve suffering. For all intents and purposes, things haven’t changed  _ that _ much. 

It’s the changed hidden depths that make the difference. Aziraphale doesn’t twitch nervously, eyes darting to any open door when they eat out together. He doesn’t have to justify gluing coins to the sidewalk as Wrath and Greed- he can just do it for the amusement of watching tourists get run over as they try to pry the coin off the ground. He doesn’t bother hiding that he’s  _ going _ into the hospital- the sneaking is reserved for blending in so he doesn’t look out of place as he makes the rounds. 

Despite this, the glasses stay firmly  _ on _ . 

It’s not as though Aziraphale hasn’t expressed his affection for those sin-yellow eyes. The angel compliments his eyes every  _ blessed _ day. The romantic bent to their relationship has unleashed a torrent of compliments from the angel, and it’s only because he’s switched off the ability to blush in his corporation that allows him to appear composed. When it’s just the two of them, sometimes he deigns to remove the glasses. He never lets Aziraphale physically remove them. 

Being bare-eyed around the angel while stone cold sober is… disconcerting, at first. The angel learns to read when the ache in his legs acts up, when the cognitive load of language is too much on top of the pain, when enough is enough. He takes to switching into whatever language Crowley wants with aplomb, and Crowley idly considers that Aziraphale has been desperate to flex his skills in long dead languages. 

Like anything else after the Apoconope, he adjusts, until suddenly, it’s second nature to lounge around the store bare-eyed. 

He stops noticing the lack of weight on the bridge of his nose. He stops feeling horribly underdressed if his eyes are exposed. 

In short, he gets  _ careless _ . 

***

The store is… while not packed, it’s as busy as it ever is. It’s midterms at the university, and literature students of all stripes have made the pilgrimage to AZ Fell’s bookstore. Aziraphale  _ loves _ the students. He’s delighted to see his books being read  _ without _ threat that they might leave him, he loves spreading knowledge, and, without the threat of Heaven, he blesses them all generously. 

Crowley keeps his glasses firmly on despite the fact that the students tend to be fairly chill with his eyes, several going so far as to compliment him on his “cool contacts”. Still, it’s not like he’s very concerned about his eyes when  _ something _ bumps into him, sending him tumbling to the ground, and throwing his glasses across the room. 

“ABBY! I told you to slow down in here!” a voice yells. One of the frequent visitors, Martha, a graduate student in religious studies, rushes over to them. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Crowley,” she says as she helps Crowley to his feet. “I have to watch Abby while our parents are away and she _ promised _ to behave while I worked on my paper, my prospectus is due at the end of this week.”

Crowley bites back a hiss at the pain in his legs as Martha rights him. “Don’t worry about it,” Crowley says. The little girl, Abby, stares at him in abject horror. 

“Why’re they  _ like that _ ?” Abby asks. 

Martha frowns at Abby, then glances over at Crowley. “Abby, honey…”

“You look creepy,” Abby whimpers. 

All too suddenly, Crowley realizes that the familiar weight of his glasses on his nose is missing.  _ ShitshitSHIT _ . 

“They’re just contacts,” Martha soothes the little girl. 

“Noooo, they’re wrong,” Abby whines. 

Martha bends to whisper to the girl furiously. If he was so inclined, Crowley could improve his hearing to be able to hear them. Instead, he fills his ears with metaphysical cotton. Whatever they’re saying, he doesn’t want to know. 

“Abby,” Martha says loudly in warning. 

The little girl huffs. “Sorry Mr. Crowley,” she says, but she shuffles behind her sister as she says it. 

“Don’ worry ‘bout it,” Crowley says vaguely, waving his hand. With as much haste as his screaming legs will allow him, he skitters into the back room and collapses on the tartan monstrosity of comfort. 

Now that he’s alone, his legs and back make their displeasure known to him. Crowley twitches a hand, and the heated blanket laid on top of the couch cranks up to full blast. 

His angel would be better, of course, but Aziraphale is in his element, spreading knowledge and debating literary interpretation. For all his demonic nature, Crowley’s hardly one to deny the angel such a pleasure. 

Just because he’s selfish in his pain doesn’t mean that he should drag others down with him. 

Crowley snaps his fingers weakly, and the heated blanket from upstairs lands gently on top of him. Another wave, and this blanket is also going full blast, encasing him in a cocoon of heat. It’s hardly enough to ease away the pain, but it’s as good as he’s going to get right now. If only his angel…

No. He’s not going to rob the angel of a chance to share in his love of literature just because Crowley wasn’t careful. Crowley squeezes his eyes tight against the threat of tears. It  _ hurts _ , the pain winding its way up his legs and through his body. 

The pain of his body, however, is nothing compared to the little girl’s reaction. Children tend to be more malleable, more open to the kind of magical thinking that’s needed to comprehend and accept the ethereal beings that walk the earth. Sometimes, that’s a good thing- children are more open minded, as a whole, and were less likely to throw stones at him, in the olden days. It’s one reason he’s always liked kids. 

But sometimes… sometimes they get a glimpse into the other side. Sometimes they really  _ see _ . His demonic nature is laid bare, on display and threatening. The kids that see it, really, truly  _ comprehend  _ in a way that few individuals do. 

And  _ that _ hurts in a way that he so rarely anticipates. 

The sick, miserable feeling that he gets whenever something makes him remember what it means to be Grace-less spreads from his chest outwards. It’s a deep, pathetic feeling that snakes its way through every atom of his being. It’s a special kind of misery, distinct from the normal agonizing slog through daily pain. He can pretend to be human for only so long. 

The sickly squirm of self-hatred mixes with the bone-deep throb of pain, making him feel lower than the dirt on the ground. Days like these, he thinks that he may as well never have left Hell- his corporation is its own Hell on Earth. 

No other demon feels this way. Not that he’s asked- any other demon would probably flay him for having the audacity to ask suck a question. But the way they walk, talk, act… none of it reads with the deep-seated self-loathing and constant thrum of pain. Most demons seem perfectly content to wallow in the filth they created for themselves in Hell. 

It’s just one more reason he was just as happy being the full time Earth agent. 

Even being On Their Own Side doesn’t do much to dull the intrinsic self-loathing. On Their Own Side doesn’t negate Curse From The Almighty. On Their Own Side is a mere eyeblink compared to six thousand years of “get thee behind me, foul fiend”. 

He won’t say as much to Aziraphale. He  _ knows _ the angel bears the guilt of six thousand years of slings and arrows, and the fact is that what they have is more than he ever expected. But he can’t deny to himself that each pinprick, some as much as six thousand years old, have all led to a highly deflated sense of self worth. 

Hot tears drip out of his eyes, running down his face. Is it from the stabs of pain coming from his legs, or from the sickly sadness radiating out from his chest? It almost doesn’t matter- the torrents of pain intermingling with shame and misery don’t care what’s stronger. 

He  _ wants _ his angel. He wants to hear from someone else that he doesn’t deserve this pain. He wants to believe, even for a few moments, that he is loved, that his eyes make him no less lovable than anyone else. 

He wants the validation that even a young child who Sees shouldn’t be allowed to bring him down to this low. 

But Aziraphale is happy. Crowley may be a demon, but he’s not a monster. He won’t drag the angel down into this miserable pit with him. 

As if summoned, the door opens. Aziraphale hums to himself, bustling around the back room. Crowley feels a whine form in the back of his throat. He tamps down on it, hard. He  _ will not  _ bring Aziraphale down with him. 

Curse (thank?) Someone for angelic hearing. “Crowley, my dear? Are you in here?” Aziraphale asks. 

Bless it all. “Yeah, ‘m here, angel.” Only his head is visible from within the blankets. 

Aziraphale approaches, his face shifting from contented to worried in the millisecond it takes to see Crowley wrapped in a cocoon of heated blankets. “Crowley, dear, what happened?” Aziraphale asks, kneeling down next to the couch. 

“Martha’s kid sister knocked me over,” Crowley mumbles. “I’m fine, angel.”

“You most certainly do not look fine,” Aziraphale admonishes. “Let me close up shop, and I’ll take you upstairs.”

“But… the students…”

“Will absolutely understand if I need to close up early to take care of my husband,” Aziraphale says firmly. 

Crowley short-circuits. “Ngk.”

“Now. Let me just go tell everyone that we’ll be needing to close up early, send them all off, and then I’ll be back lickity-split, don’t you worry,” Aziraphale says, bustling about the room. 

Crowley lets his mind go blank as Aziraphale is as good as his word. The bell over the shop door jingles continuously as the students stream out the door. 

He can feel his mind drifting away in the pain. It’s hard to stay focused on any one thing like this. 

“There we are, my dear,” Aziraphale says, voice breaking into Crowley’s reverie. “All done and dusted, never you worry. Now. Shall I carry you up the stairs, or simply miracle you there?” 

As much as he loves when the angel shows off his strength… “Miracle,” Crowley croaks. 

At the snap of a finger, the two beings are gently deposited on the angel’s tartan bedecked bed, Crowley curled up around Aziraphale, with the heating blanket atop them. 

“There you are, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Is that better, now?”

Crowley buries his head into the angel’s neck. “‘S good,” he mumbles. His traitor eyes, recognizing the angel as a safe place, unleash a torrent of tears. 

Aziraphale holds him as he cries, gently stroking his head and back. When he’s cried himself out, gasping in breath in odd little hiccups, Aziraphale kisses his forehead gently. “Do you want to talk about it, dearest?”

“She Saw,” Crowley hiccups. 

The hand stroking his head never falters. “Who? Abby, Martha’s sister? What did she see?”

“Me,” Crowley hiccups. “She Saw  _ me _ .”

Aziraphale stills below him, and for a moment, Crowley fears that it’s the end- a being that terrifies little girls is too repulsive to seek comfort from an angel. “You mean to say that she Saw your demonic self?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Think so. ‘S why she flipped like she did.”

“The eyes are the window to the soul,” Aziraphale quotes. He kisses Crowley’s closed eyelids. “While at first glance, your true form can be rather frightening, my dear, I can’t imagine that your core should be anything other than beauty and kindness.”

No, that can't be right. “‘M a  _ demon _ .”

The angel cradles his head between two perfectly soft, gently manicured hands. “You're perfect, my darling.” 

Crowley opens his eyes, and has to blink them closed again at the sheer outpouring of love in those angelic blue eyes. Aziraphale gently strokes the line of his jaw with a thumb. 

“Zira,” Crowley mumbles, unsure what he can say. 

“You’re looking rather exhausted, my dear,” Aziraphale says. “Let me take care of you. Rest.”

“Angel…” 

Aziraphale exerts a gentle pressure on his jaw, and muscles Crowley had no idea were tense start to relax. “Tell me, darling.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale says firmly. “You are, without a doubt, the best thing that's ever happened to me. One of the Almighty’s finest works. And I  _ will not stand _ for self-deprecation.”

Crowley dares to open his still-streaming eyes. The angel’s eyes are a steely blue of determination. “Angel?”

“Whatever that little girl Saw is in no way a reflection of  _ who _ you are- only  _ what _ you are, and those are in no way the same,” Aziraphale continues. “It in  _ no way _ reflects your worth. Tell me, how long did you lie on the couch there, before I came in?”

Crowley bites his lip, sharp fangs sinking into the soft flesh. “Dunno. Didn’ wanna dissssturb you.”

“You could never, my darling. If I can help you, it is my honor and privilege to do so.”

“The sssstudents…”

“Will be the better for being forced home and hopefully into a bed,” Aziraphale says firmly. “ _ You _ are my priority. For so long, I couldn’t let you be, but now, I can take care of you as I’ve wished to for millenia.”

“Love you,” Crowley murmurs. 

“I love you too, my darling. Rest. I’ll be here when you wake,” Aziraphale orders. 

Heart full, Crowley obeys


End file.
